by Eugène Sue
“She had her wax, young man! She never goes without her wax!” said the brigand.
The Chouette proceeded:
“It was necessary to approach the door which smelled so strongly of the cash, so I pretended that I was seized with a fit of coughing, — so violent, that I was compelled to lean against the wall for support. Hearing me cough, the porter said,’I’ll fetch you a morsel of sugar to put in your water.’ He probably looked for a spoon, for I heard plate chink, — plate in the room on the left-hand; don’t forget that, fourline. Well, coughing and wheezing, I reached the door at the bottom, — I had my wax in the palm of my hand. I leaned against the lock as though accidentally, and here is the impression; we may not want it to-day, but another time it may be useful.”
And the Chouette gave the brigand a bit of yellow wax, on which the print of the lock was perfectly impressed.
“You can tell us whether this is the door of the money-chest,” said the Chouette.
“It is, and there is the cash,” replied Rodolph; and then said to himself, “Has Murphy, then, been the dupe of this cursed old hag? Perhaps so, and he only expects to be assailed at ten o’clock; by that time every precaution will have been taken.”
“But all the money is not there,” continued the Chouette, and her one green eye sparkled. “As I approached the windows, still searching for my darling Cocotte, I saw in one of the chambers (door on the left) some bags of crown pieces, in a bureau. I saw them as plainly as I see you, my man; there were at least a dozen of them.”
“Where is Tortillard?” said the Schoolmaster.
“In his hiding-place, — not more than two paces from the garden. He can see in the dark like a cat. There is only that one entrance to No. 17, so when we go he will tell us if any one has come or not.”
“That’s good—”
The Schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words than he made a sudden rush at Rodolph, grappled him by the throat, and flung him violently down the cellar which was yawning behind the table.
The attack was so rapid, unexpected, and powerful, that Rodolph could neither foresee nor avoid it. The Chouette, alarmed, uttered a piercing shriek; for at the first moment she had not seen the result of the struggle. When the noise of Rodolph’s body rolling down the steps had ceased, the Schoolmaster, who knew all the ways and windings of the underground vaults in the place, went down the stairs slowly, listening as he went.
“Fourline, be on your guard,” cried the beldam, leaning over the opening of the trap; “draw your ‘pinking iron.’”
The brigand disappeared without any reply. For a time nothing was heard, but at the end of a few moments the distant noise of a door shutting, which creaked on its rusty hinges, sounded harshly in the depths of the cavern; then all was again still as death. The darkness was complete. The Chouette fumbled in her basket, and then, producing a lucifer-match, lighted a wax taper, whose feeble ray made visible the darkness of this dreary den.
At this moment the monster-visage of the Schoolmaster appeared at the opening of the trap. The Chouette could not repress an exclamation of horror at the sight of his ghastly, seamed, mutilated, and fearful face, with eyes that gleamed like phosphorus, and seemed to glare on the ground even in the midst of the darkness which the lighted taper could not entirely dissipate. Having subdued her feeling of fright, the old hag exclaimed, in a tone of horrible flattery:
“You must be an awful man, fourline, for even I was frightened! — yes, I!”
“Quick, quick, for the Allée des Veuves!” said the ruffian, securely closing the double flap of the trap with a bar of iron. “In another hour, perhaps, it will be too late. If it is a trap, it is not yet baited; if it is not, why, we can do the job alone.”
CHAPTER XV.
THE VAULT.
STUNNED BY HIS horrible fall, Rodolph lay senseless and motionless at the bottom of the stairs, down which he had been hurled. The Schoolmaster, dragging him to the entrance of a second and still deeper cavern, thrust him into its hideous recesses, and closing and securely bolting a massy iron-shod door, returned to his worthy confederate, the Chouette, who was waiting to join him in the proposed robbery (it might be murder) in the Allée des Veuves.
About the end of an hour Rodolph began, though slowly, to resume his consciousness. He found himself extended on the ground, in the midst of thick darkness; he extended his hand and touched the stone stairs descending to the vault; a sensation of extreme cold about his feet induced him to endeavour, by feeling the ground, to ascertain the cause: his fingers dabbled in a pool of water.
With a violent effort he contrived to seat himself on the lower step of the staircase; the giddiness arising from his fall subsided by degrees, and as he became able to extend his limbs he found, to his great joy, that, though severely shaken and contused, no bones were broken. He listened: the only sound that reached his ear was a low, dull, pattering, but continued noise, of which he was then far from divining the cause.
As his senses became more clear, so did the circumstances, to which he had been the unfortunate victim, return to his imagination; and just as he had recalled each particular, and was deeply considering the possible result of the whole, he became aware that his feet were wholly submerged in water; it had, indeed, risen above his ankle.
In the midst of the heavy gloom and deep silence which surrounded him, he heard still the same dull, trickling sound he had observed before; and now the matter was clear to him. Now, indeed, he comprehended all the horrors of his situation: the cave was filling with water, arising from the fearful and formidable overflowing of the Seine, — the dungeon in which he had been thrown was doubtless beneath the level of the river, and was chosen by his gaolers for that purpose, as offering a slow though certain means of destruction.
The conviction of his danger recalled Rodolph entirely to himself. Quick as lightning he made his way up the damp, slippery stairs; arrived at the top, he came in contact with a thick door; he tried in vain to open it, — its massy hinges resisted his most vigorous efforts to force them.
At this moment of despair and danger, his first thought was for Murphy. “If he be not on his guard, those monsters will murder him!” cried he. “It will be I who shall have caused his death, — my good, my faithful Murphy!” This cruel thought nerved the arm of Rodolph with fresh vigour, and again he bent his most powerful energy to endeavour to force the ponderous door. Alas! the thickly plated iron with which it was covered mocked his utmost efforts; and sore, weary, and exhausted, he was compelled to relinquish the fruitless task. Again he descended into the cave, in hopes of obtaining something which might serve as a lever to force the hinges or wrench the fastenings. Groping against the slimy walls, he felt himself continually treading on some sort of round elastic bodies, which appeared to slip from under his feet, and to scramble for safety past him. They were rats, driven by the fast-rising water from their retreats. Groping about the place on all fours, with the water half way up his leg, Rodolph felt in all directions for the weapon he so much desired to find; nothing but the damp walls met his touch, however, and, in utter despair, he resumed his position at the top of the steps, — of the thirteen stairs which composed the flight, three were already under water.
Thirteen had ever been Rodolph’s unlucky number. There are moments when the strongest minds are under the influence of superstitious ideas, and, at this juncture, Rodolph viewed the fatal amount of stairs as an ill augury. Again the possible fate of Murphy recurred to him, and, as if inspired by a fresh hope, he eagerly felt around the door to discover some slight chink, or opening, by which his cries for help might be heard. In vain; the dampness of the soil had swollen the wood, and joined it hermetically to the wet, slimy earth.
Rodolph next tried the powers of his voice, and shouted with the fullest expansion of his lungs, trusting that his cries for assistance might reach the adjoining cabaret; and then, tired and exhausted, sat down to listen. Nothing was to be heard, no sound disturbed the deep silence which reign
ed, but the drop, drop, drop, the dull, trickling, monotonous bubbling of the fast-increasing waters.
His last hope extinguished, Rodolph seated himself in gloomy despair, and, leaning his back against the door, bewailed the perilous situation of his faithful friend, — perhaps at that very moment struggling beneath the assassin’s knife. Bitterly did he then regret his rash and venturesome projects, however good and generous the motives by which he had been instigated; and severely did he reproach himself for having taken advantage of the devotion of Murphy, who, rich, honoured, and esteemed by all who knew him, had quitted a beloved wife and child, to assist Rodolph in the bold undertaking he had imposed on himself.
During these sorrowful reflections, the water was still rising rapidly, and five steps only now remained dry. Rodolph now found himself compelled to assume a standing position, though, in so doing, his forehead was brought in close contact with the very top of the vault. He calculated the probable duration of his mortal agony, — of the period which must elapse ere this slow, inch-like death would put a period to his misery; he bethought him of the pistol he carried with him, and, at the risk of injuring himself in the attempt, he determined to fire it off against the door, so as to disturb some of the fastenings by the concussion; but here, again, a disappointment awaited him, — the pistol was nowhere to be found, and he could but conclude it had fallen from his pocket during his struggle with the Schoolmaster. But for his deep concern on Murphy’s account, Rodolph would have met his death unmoved, — his conscience acquitted him of all intentional offence; nay, it solaced him with the recollection of good actually performed, and much more meditated. To the decrees of an all-wise and inscrutable Providence he resigned himself, and humbly accepted his present punishment as the just reward for a criminal action as yet unexpiated.
A fresh trial of his fortitude awaited him. The rats, still pursued by the fast-gathering waters, finding no other means of escape, sought refuge from one step to another, ascending as fast as the rising flood rendered their position untenable; unable to scale the perpendicular walls or doors, they availed themselves of the vestments of Rodolph, whose horror and disgust rose to an indescribable degree, as he felt their cold, clammy paws, and wet, hairy bodies, crawling or clinging to him; in his attempts to repulse them, their sharp, cold bite inflicted on him a most acute agony, while his face and hands streamed with blood, from the multitude of wounds received. Again he called for help, shouted aloud, and almost screamed in his pain and wretchedness. Alas! the dull echo of the vault and the gurgling waters alone replied. A few short moments, and he would be bereft even of the power of calling upon God or man to help him; the rapidly rising flood had now reached his very throat, and ere long would have ascended to his lips.
The choked air began, too, to fail in the narrow space now left it, and the first symptoms of asphyxia began to oppress Rodolph; the arteries of his temples beat violently, his head became giddy, and the faint sickness of death seemed to make his chest heave convulsively. Already were the waters gurgling in his ears; a dizziness of sight and a confusion of ideas had well-nigh deprived him of all powers of sight or sound; the last glimmer of reason was well-nigh shaken from her throne, when hasty steps and the sound of voices on the other side of the door were heard.
Hope recalled his expiring strength, and, making one powerful effort, Rodolph was able to distinguish the following words, after which all consciousness forsook him:
“Did I not tell you so? There, you see there is no one here!”
“Deuce take it! no more there is,” replied the voice of the Chourineur, in a tone of vexation and disappointment. And the sounds died away.
Rodolph, utterly exhausted, had no longer power to sustain himself; his limbs sunk from under him, and he slid unresistingly down the stone steps.
All at once the door of the vault was abruptly opened from the other side, and the swelling masses contained in the inner vault, glad to find a further outlet, rushed onwards as though bursting through the gates of a sluice, and the Chourineur, whose opportune return shall be accounted for by and by, seized the two arms of Rodolph, who, half dead, had mechanically clung to the threshold of the door, and bore him from the black and rushing waters which had nigh proved his grave.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE SICK-NURSE.
SNATCHED BY THE Chourineur from a certain death, and removed to the house in the Allée des Veuves which had been reconnoitred by the Chouette, previously to the attempt on it by the Schoolmaster, Rodolph was placed in bed, in a comfortably furnished apartment; a cheerful fire was burning on the hearth. A lamp, placed on a neighbouring table, diffused a strong, clear light; while the bed of Rodolph, shaded by thick curtains of green damask, remained protected from the glare, and in the shadow of its deep recess.
A negro of middle stature, with white hair and eyebrows, wearing an orange and green riband at the buttonhole of his blue coat, sat by the bedside, holding in his right hand a seconds’ watch, which he appeared to consult while counting with his left the beating of Rodolph’s pulse. The expression of the negro’s countenance was at once sad and pensive, and he continued from time to time to gaze on the sleeping man with the most tender solicitude.
The Chourineur, clad in rags and soiled with mud, stood motionless, with folded arms, at the foot of the bed; his red beard was long and matted, in disorder; his thick, bushy hair was tangled with mud and wet, which still dripped from it; while his hard, bronzed features were marked by the most profound pity for the patient: hardly venturing to breathe lest the heaving of his huge chest should disturb the invalid, he awaited with the most intense anxiety the result of the doctor’s observations on the sick man’s state; then, as though to while away the fearful apprehension of an unfavourable opinion, he continued to deliver his thoughts aloud, after the following manner:
“Who would think, now, to see him lying there so helpless, he could ever have been the man to give me such a precious drubbing as I got from him? I dare say, though, he will soon be up again, well and strong as ever. Don’t you think so, M. le Docteur? Faith, I only wish he could drum himself well upon my back; I’d lend it him as long as he liked. But, perhaps, that would shake him too much, and overfatigue him; would it, sir?” addressing the negro, whose only reply was an impatient wave of the hand.
The Chourineur was instantly silent.
“The draught!” said the doctor.
The Chourineur, who had respectfully left his nailed shoes at the door, at these words arose, and walked towards the table indicated by the negro’s finger; going on the very top of his toes, drawing up his legs, extending his arms, and swelling out his back and shoulders, in a manner so ludicrous as, under other circumstances, would have been highly diverting. The poor fellow seemed endeavouring to collect his whole weight, so that no portion of it should touch the floor; which, in spite of his energetic efforts to prevent it, groaned beneath his ponderous limbs as they moved towards the desired spot. Unfortunately, between his overanxiety to acquit himself well in his important mission, and his fear of dropping the delicate phial he was bringing so overcarefully, he grasped the slight neck so tightly in his huge hand that it shivered to atoms, and the precious liquid was expended on the carpet.
At the sight of this unfortunate mischance the Chourineur remained in mute astonishment, one of his huge legs in the air, his toes nervously contracted, and looking with a stupefied air alternately from the doctor to the fragments of the bottle, and from that to the morsel his thumb and finger were yet tightly holding.
“Awkward devil!” exclaimed the negro, impatiently.
“Yes, that I am!” responded the Chourineur, as though grateful for the sound of a voice to break the frightful bewilderment of his ideas.
“Ah!” cried the Æsculapius, observing the table attentively, “happily you took the wrong phial, — I wanted the other one.”
“What, that little one with the red stuff?” inquired the unlucky sick-nurse, in a low and humble tone.
“Of course I mean that; why, there is no other left.”
The Chourineur, turning quickly around upon his heels, after his old military fashion, crushed the fragments of glass which lay on the carpet beneath his feet. More delicate ones might have suffered severely from the circumstance, but the ex-débardeur had a pair of natural sandals, hard as the hoofs of a horse.
“Have a care!” cried the physician. “You will hurt yourself!”
To this caution the Chourineur paid no attention, but seemed wholly absorbed in so discharging his new mission as should effectually destroy all recollection of his late clumsiness. It was really beautiful to behold the scrupulous delicacy and lightness of touch with which, spreading out his two first fingers, he seized the fragile crystal; avoiding all use of the unlucky thumb whose undue pressure, he rightly conceived, had brought about his previous accident, he kept so widely stretched from his forefinger that a butterfly might have passed between, with outspread wings, without losing one atom of its golden plumage. The black doctor trembled lest all this caution should lead to a second misadventure, but, happily, the phial reached its destination in safety. As the Chourineur approached the bed, he again smashed beneath his tread some of the fallen relics of the former potion.
“The deuce take you, man! Do you want to maim yourself for life?”
“Lame myself?” asked the eager nurse.
“Why, yes; you keep walking upon glass as though you were trying for it.”
“Oh, bless you! never mind that; the soles of my feet are hard as iron; must be something sharper than glass could hurt them.”
“A teaspoon—” said the doctor.
The Chourineur recommenced his évolutions sylphidiques, and returned with the article required.
After having swallowed a few spoonfuls of the mixture, Rodolph began to stir in his bed, and faintly moved his hands.
